


Pharma's Mess

by orphan_account



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Desperation, Gen, Scat, messing, vaguely implied murder because it's pharma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 12:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12530928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: READ THE TAGSthis is. absolutely nasty..i started this for a friend a long time ago, but never finished it until now, so here it is with zero editing





	Pharma's Mess

Pharma checked his internal clock, registering that he'd barely moved in nearly three days, save for picking away at a dead mech's internals. Whoever this poor soul had been, their t-cog was buried deep in their corpse, probably to protect from exactly what the medic was trying to do. 

As soon as he's no longer distracted by his work his tanks churn, only worsening an ominous heaviness that had been growing in his waste tanks for the past few days. Almost instantly an awful cramp hits him, as if his processor was taking time to figure out how desperate he really was. Cramming his thighs together, he drags his servos across his chestplate to wipe off his "patient"'s energon, hurrying the best he could back to the locker rooms with washracks near his berthroom. 

The pressure in his waste tanks seemed to grow by the second, each step feeling like the next would be the one where he lost control. He's only one corridor closer to his destination when he has to stop for the first time, forcing his servos between his legs momentarily to squirm. A fresh wave of cramps rolls over his lower abdominals, forcing him to clench his port tight in an effort to keep everything in, making his tanks churn in distress and gurgle with the gas built up with his heavy waste. 

Ambulon and First Aid should be in their room, too far away to hear him, and most patients were in stasis. When the next cramp wracks his abdominals he gives in, stopping and bracing himself against the nearest wall to cradle his stomach, rubbing light circles to soothe as he carefully lets a quick burst of gas bubble out of him, cutting it off before anything worse can happen.

He's able to continue another few hallways after that, crossing his arms over himself in the cool Delphi air. If Pharma thinks of something else he can almost ignore it, moving a little faster through the base, nearly getting close enough to the washracks that he might make it. That is, until the bloated, gassy feeling returns against his port, forcing him to stop again, in the middle of the hall this time. 

When he tried to pass gas this time he has to cut himself off as his port opens wider in anticipation, a burst of air forcing his solid waste downward. Servos clamping over his aft, he strains to clench his port shut to keep the mess out of his modesty panels. Moaning in his desperation, his servos stay against his panels as he tries to move faster, crying out when the solid mass in his bowels pushes further, resting against his port as it opens again in response. 

Pharma crouches out of instinct where he is, wrapping his arms around his aching stomach as another cramp hit him. It's too much now, he's not strong enough to strain any further than he already is; his port spreads painfully wide as the thick head of his built up waste pushes through, squishing warmly against his modesty panels. Clutching his stomach, he curls further into himself, groaning in relief despite only releasing less than a fourth of his load. 

Once he's sure nothing more will escape for now, he stands again, still holding his stomach tight as it cramps further, berating him for cutting himself off. The motion of walking slides the broken-off waste in his panels further down, rubbing uncomfortably against his valve, making him feel filthy as he tries to move onward. 

Only half way down the hall he has to stop once more, bracing himself against a wall and letting his helm fall forward as his vents heave with the effort of holding everything in. There's no hope to make it to the washracks and trying to preserve his dignity in this empty hall would be not only pointless, but painful. With a grunt of resignation he gives a small push, stretching his port again as his abdominals cramp to help the mass outward, quickly filling his panels as his port burns from the width of it. Before he's even partially relieved it becomes too much for his panels to hold; they snap open automatically, caked with waste and a tinge of energon from his over-stretched port. He continues to push, despite his mess's only destination being the floor, he's too desperate to stop at this point as the cramps start to loosen. 

The thickest portion of his waste breaks off, hitting the ground with a thud as he groans audibly in relief. Another cramp hits him, lower this time, and he bears down, straining against the solid waste as it gradually becomes softer, breaking off to release an almost entirely liquid stream to the now filthy floor below. 

His port stings as he stands there, both servos in tight fists against the wall with his pedes seeping in a puddle of his own mess. Finally, Pharma's tanks are empty, though he's not sure it's a completely welcome feeling with the repercussions of what he's just done. Someone will have to clean this up and he's not sure he could face his nurses if one of them had to do it.


End file.
